


The King's Consort

by checkmat3y



Series: The King and his Prince [1]
Category: Basketball RPF
Genre: (Sort of) Established Relationship, Aggression, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Dominance, Jealousy, M/M, Rough Sex, Slut Shaming, Spit As Lube, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 04:27:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7252060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/checkmat3y/pseuds/checkmat3y
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>LeBron finds Curry after game six and reminds him that a bitch on the court is bitch in the sheets</p>
            </blockquote>





	The King's Consort

**Author's Note:**

> All of this wouldn't have happened if it wasn't for marmaladechainsaw and her lovely Steph/LeBron fics. Go read them now! 
> 
> If you can't tell, I'm a die hard Cavs fan and love seeing Steph as LeBron's bitch. Come on! I finished this in celebration of the Cleveland Cavalier's first NBA championship. I cried like a baby.

After the game, Steph is more than expecting to hear the hotel door open when he does. It’s almost 2:00 a.m. and most of the team is already asleep in their rooms. He’s bent over a sink in the hallway between the bathroom and bed area, splashing water onto his face, hoping his legs will keep supporting him.

 

Then there’s a click of the deadbolt being thrown into lock and his stomach jumps wildly in response  before he lifts his head and blinks his eyes into focus on his visitor’s dark gaze behind him. Of course, it’s LeBron James.

 

“Nothing to say, bitch?” His words cut into Steph almost immediately. Even in the mirror, LeBron’s approach freezes him where he stands. LeBron moves like a panther with efficient grace and lean muscle, and Steph feels disturbingly like a mouse when LeBron’s eyes meet his in the reflection.

 

The older man steps forward and reaches out to place his hand on the back of Steph’s head and push his fingers through Steph’s short hair, emphasizing what the locked door is already saying. “You sure had a lot to say to the ref when you got tossed.” It would be an argument worth fighting if LeBron didn’t deliver it with such intimidation.

 

His fingers dug into Steph’s scalp pressing into his skin, and Steph dips his head in routine submission before replying. “You know that call was bullshit,” He mumbles with much less fire than he would have otherwise.

 

Withdrawing his fingers from Steph’s head, he slides them down his side and presses into Steph’s hip. He doesn’t lift his head or open his eyes, knowing the king doesn’t need permission, and LeBron’s hand shoves the hem of Steph’s shirt up. Warm fingers slide over the cooling sweat still coating Steph’s skin after his shower.

 

“Sounds like an excuse.” LeBron is smiling, and Steph can hear definite slivers of amusement and arrogance with his words. “You’d think a two-time MVP like yourself would know excuses ain’t worth shit.”

 

“I played well anyways,” Steph reminds him. His voice is shaking a little, and he doesn’t bother trying to control it. LeBron hands are on him, after all, the same familiar long fingers and well-worn calluses. And the shaking isn’t just from exhaustion.

 

“You did.” This sounds nearly affectionate, but Steph knows better. There’s a press up against his back, and LeBron is stepping forward to push the shorter man up against the edge of the sink. And when he speaks again, his voice is blowing warm air against the back of Steph’s ear. “Your coach defended you pretty hard. Heard he’s gonna’ get fined for bitching.”

 

“Mm.” Steph hums noncommittally because he really doesn’t know anything about his coach’s fine, only his own, but it doesn’t work. Of course it doesn’t work. LeBron leans in closer, the hand under Steph’s shirt jersey slides up higher pressing the palm of his hand over Steph’s rib cage.

 

“Do you let him fuck you, whore?” Lebron bites back. Now Steph can feel the rumble under his words, reverberating from from chest to the contact with his back. He’s either angry or messing with him. It shouldn’t be a turn-on, accusing him of having sex with Coach Kerr. But Steph starts breathing so heavily; LeBron has to be able to hear it.

 

The older man’s hand glides his hand back down, past the loose elastic of Steph’s shorts this time, so he can close his large hand into a grip against the younger’s hip.

 

“Do you bend over for ‘em, hm?” It doesn’t register as jealousy as much as amusement with the soft laughter that puffs across Steph’s ear, but LeBron’s fingers are starting to cause pain with how hard he’s holding onto his hip. “You go crying to him every time your pathetic team loses?”

 

Steph can’t remember how to talk. If it was anyone else, he would remind them that they only lost nine times in the regular season.

 

He shakes his head, at least, quick and jerky, and apparently that’s the right answer because LeBron smiles against his ear, pulls Steph back against him by his hold on his hip so they’re pressed together from knees to shoulders.

 

“You fuck your ‘splash brother’ then?” LeBron mocks, and Steph doesn’t bother to deny it because it’s completely laughable. LeBron already knows there’s no one else, practically guarantees it. “Am I not good enough for you now?” He rocks forward against Steph, thrusting his hips forward so the shorter man can feel the shape of the other’s hardened arousal through his basketball shorts. “Or can no one else compare now?”

 

Steph laughs, not sure if he intends it as a denial or confirmation, and LeBron grins at him in the mirror.  Steph knows his eyes have to be fully dilated with lust from just looking at him, can feel the way his throat involuntary swallows.

 

 LeBron’s hand at his hip slides down farther under the fabric, digging his fingers into Steph’s thigh, which isn’t where Steph wants his hand but is close enough that his girth jumps to full attention.

 

It’s clear from the obvious tent in his shorts or would be if Steph could look away from LeBron’s face. As it is, he is trapped by his smile and those eyes, the trickle of sweat along the other’s collarbone. He knows he can’t turn away. He can’t make himself blink, even when LeBron’s free hand hooks around the top of Steph’s shorts and pushes down.

 

“I’m the only one who gets to fuck you. Use your hole whenever I want,” LeBron proclaims, still smiling, and when his hand slides toward the direction of Steph’s bum, the shorter man shudders and finally blinks.

 

“LeBron –,” He starts. “I –”

 

“What is it?” LeBron asks knowingly. His hand moves away but only for a moment; the grip from his other hand on Steph’s thigh is still strong.  Steph wonders if it’s the only thing holding him upright at this point.

 

LeBron’s fingers from his free hand slide over Steph’s shirt and into his mouth, and Steph immediately starts licking his fingers on command, more ostentatiously than necessary. He doesn’t mind it, can’t even pretend to mind, not with the way his pants are tented.

 

He doesn’t remember that he was speaking until LeBron pulls his fingers free and slides them back down his chest, shrugging his shirt up to reach inside his pants next to his other hand. They’re warm from his mouth and wet with saliva. As if on cue, Steph rocks back against the contact without even thinking about it.

 

“I’m not sure I can–,” He starts again, and suddenly a wet finger pushes up into him, and the pressure is more than he can think through for a moment. He shudders again, whines a high sound of protest and encouragement at once. LeBron growls lowly, and when Steph tilts his head up and opens his eyes from an instinctive reaction, the older man is glaring at him in the mirror.

 

“Shut up,” LeBron hisses. He twists his wrist, works his finger in farther as he continues speaking, which doesn’t do a lot for Steph’s attention. “Someone will hear your whore mouth from the hallway. And then they’ll start wondering why the door’s locked. Why you’re not sleeping. Do you really want your teammates to know what a cock slut you are for me?”

 

Steph groans, grabs onto the sink tightly, and manages to inhale in spite of the steady movement of LeBron’s finger slowly moving inside him. The wet sound of his finger sliding in and out, filling the hotel room only turns him on further. “J–just you, ‘Bron.” He drawls the nickname extra-long, turning it into an endearment beyond the nickname itself, and LeBron laughs.

 

“I can feel that,” He offers, shifting his hand so Steph’s breathe goes, and Steph is panting for air for a desperate minute. “You’re so fucking tight; I knew you’d save yourself for me. The two-time MVP taking it up the ass by the king.”

 

Steph dips his head – it’s too hard to keep watching LeBron’s face in shame – and uses the gasp of air in his lungs to delay so he can change the subject with some subtlety. “I’m not – I’m not going to be able to keep my feet like this.”

 

“Yeah, I can feel you shaking already.” LeBron presses in closer again until his mouth is pressed against the back of Steph’s neck. “Just brace yourself on the sink. I’ll have a free hand in a minute.”

 

He says it calmly, with no sense of the importance of the words, but if LeBron knows the implications, Steph certainly doesn’t.

 

Steph shudders in anticipation this time because LeBron’s finger alone is almost too much with the minimal lubrication, and when the other man pulls back so he can thrust back in, Steph relaxes into it. It takes a bit to remember, but he has it now, the counterintuitive give to the other’s take. LeBron hums in appreciation against his the back of his neck and pushes his finger in a little deeper and a little harder.

 

The hand holding his thigh slides slyly over to Steph’s cock. He holds him loosely, just enough of a distraction, a slow pump up and then down, and then with a twist of his wrist of his other hand, LeBron twists his finger to the knuckle and adds another.

 

“LeBron,” Steph says, or tries to say. It comes out a little too frayed to be anything other than a gasp, and it’s quiet enough that no one outside the hotel room should be able to hear it.

 

LeBron doesn’t answer out loud, but he curls his fingers further in to press in right where Steph wants pressure, and Steph takes that as a response, at least once he can catch his breath from the involuntary mewling whine this pulls from him.

 

He moves his other hand down to touch Steph’s testicles in a rough sort of pull that he hadn’t done before. The pain-laced pleasure shoots through him in a complex way he wants to feel again.

 

“Some things aren’t a race.” He finally answers. LeBron’s voice is so deep, a rumbling purr that vibrates against Steph’s back.

 

 “A whore like you wouldn’t get it.” Despite his harsh words, he palms the head of Steph’s cock then slides his thumb along the sensitive slit, already wet with precum.

 

Without warning, LeBron presses his fingers inside Steph as far in as they will go until Steph lets out a loud moan and stills his body, remembering the older man’s words from earlier. He expects Lebron to slow his fingers down now that he is in so far, but he doesn’t relent. He keeps on pumping his fingers in and out of Steph’s hole.

 

“Please, please,” Steph says, voice broken and face red with embarrassment from begging. He brings one of his hands off the sink and places his arm over his face, hiding from LeBron the best he can.

 

“Didn’t I tell you to shut up?” The older man asks, continuing to drive in and out of Steph with one hand and gently stroking his shaft with the other. “You’re leaking all over, you know that? Wet like the fucking bitch you are. Bet you were hard before I even walked in the door.”

 

Steph starts whining softly again, words swallowed up into big heaving breaths, sounds rolling out of him in waves as LeBron continues to massage his prostate. He can’t keep his arm over his face any longer and grabs the sink once more.

 

“Do you – did you bring a condom?” Steph manages to ask once LeBron abruptly pulls his fingers free of his hole and brings his hand to Steph’s mouth, silently commanding him to lick at his fingers once more.

 

He’s still watching Steph in the mirror; his grin hasn’t faltered, and when Steph begins to obscenely suck in his digits, there’s a flicker of additional amusement.  It only lasts a few moments until drool begins forming on LeBron’s fingers.

 

LeBron slides his fingers out of his mouth and back into Steph’s pants before he can register what is happening. When three fingers plunge inside his hole, stretching the rim, Steph drops his head again and takes a strangled gasp of air.

 

“Of course I did,” LeBron’s voice cuts in over the panting sound of Steph’s breathing. The shorter man hears the words and understands them a moment later as his brain struggles to pay attention to anything other than the pressure of the other’s fingers inside him. His hole clenches around LeBron’s fingers, and he pulls hair hand off the sink to reach around and grab his own cock but the hand on his length lets go and swats at his hand.

 

LeBron’s talking despite this. “You're so pretty when you beg. I should make you beg more.” But the sound of his voice is becoming a shuddery background, and Steph doesn’t bother to respond beyond a shake of his head.

 

The older male laughs over his shoulder, scissors his fingers, and watches Steph gasp and nearly fall before LeBron grabs his hip in the same spot, letting go of his shaft. Steph shifts one hand up to the wall, braces himself with the strength of his shoulder.

 

“Next time I see you, you’re gonna’ get fucking tested, and I’m gonna’ fuck your tight ass bare.” LeBron’s fingers are digging into his hip, and he has to be leaving bruises but right now it doesn’t even hurt.

 

All Steph is aware of is that it’s taking both his hands and one of LeBron’s legs tucked under him to keep him on his feet ,and he’s so hard he thinks he might be able to get off if he just rocks forward against the edge of the sink in front of him.

 

He doesn’t. What he does is take a desperate breath and say, “LeBron, please.” He doesn’t specify – he doesn’t need to. He can hear the man’s darkened laugh even before his fingers slide out of him, taking sensation with them and sending chills of anticipation over Steph’s skin.

 

“Hold on.” It’s a demand, an order LeBron expects to be obeyed, and Steph doesn’t protest, doesn’t even shift his hand to push his shorts free. He keeps his right hand flat on the wall and his breath even. He tries not to moan with eagerness to the promising crinkle of plastic and foil behind him.

  
Steph tries to catch his breath when he hears LeBron hiss at the contact of his fingers against himself, no doubt sliding the condom on his oversized member. It was one thing Steph knew he would never get used to.

 

The fingers at his hip vanishes for a moment, but with his hand up against the wall, Steph’s in no danger of falling. However, LeBron suddenly grabs the edge of Steph’s shorts and pushes the cloth free of his hips, and the resultant rush of adrenaline nearly brings the shorter man to his knees.

 

“I could feel you clenching around my fingers. You ready for the real thing?” LeBron asks. Steph steadies himself and lifts his head again so he can see the LeBron’s grin in the reflection.

 

 He’s holding the other’s dark gaze when LeBron’s hand comes back to his hip to hold him steady, and Steph knows what’s coming next even before he hears LeBron spits into his palm and reaches down to stroke over himself.

 

Steph can’t see the movement of his hand, but he can see the other man’s shoulder working, can see the glaze of anticipation starting to settle into LeBron’s eyes. And by the time the second hand comes down to lock him in place, LeBron’s gaze is just as his own.

 

LeBron doesn’t keep him waiting long. He spreads Steph’s cheeks open with one hand, using the other to guide his length to Steph’s hole. And then he shoves in, and Steph cries out. He thought he was ready, but it hurts way more than he expected it to, and LeBron’s not going slow at all.

 

It’s almost too much; LeBron never was very patient about preparation, and the circumstances are far from ideal, and even the lubrication on the condom itself is minimal. Steph’s legs are trembling and his arms are starting to shake now. The wave of exhaustion and prickle of almost-pain is starting to make this feel like a really spectacularly bad idea.

 

Then LeBron’s hand leaves his hip, and before Steph has a chance to protest the loss of stabilization, the other man’s fingers are fumbling around to get a grip on his cock.

 

“LeBron,” Steph hisses and bites down on his lower lip and tries to relax. But his muscles seem to be resisting LeBron, and it's abruptly painful when he makes another sudden rough move. LeBron laughs as he pushes in deeper while stroking along Steph’s length with a flick of his wrist.

 

“That’s my name,” He agrees. Steph’s body is sparking sensation wildly over his skin from the pull and push of LeBron inside him blending with the rush of the other’s breath against his neck. The drag of fingers on his length somehow turns into a single sensation with spreading numbness from his head against his wrist. “You do want to make it good for me, don't you? You fucking love giving it up for me.”

 

“You told me to shut up,” Steph remembers instantly, making no attempt to deny his question. The tugging on his cock does help him to relax a little, but he's still not prepared for LeBron to pull most of the way out and then slam back in again. He yelps at the sensation.

 

 “Stop for a sec, okay, let me –” He cuts off as LeBron strokes out-of-time and too quick, slicks his thumb hard over the head of his cock and all the air tries to leave Steph’s lungs at once.

 

“You knew I wouldn't go easy on you, bitch. You begged me for it like a little slut, and now you're pussying out?” LeBron grits out angrily against the back of his neck. He pulls back, thrusts in again harder than the first time, and Steph’s thoughts scatter into fragments.

 

Tears are building in Steph’s eyes, which is ridiculous. He’s pushed aside, shoved off his feet, and knocked into on a regular basis, and none of that makes him cry

 

“I love the way you look when you get your ass handed to you.” LeBron pushes in again, harder and faster, and this time he hits home to froce a groan of appreciation from Steph’s throat. “You’re such a slut when you’re desperate; out there or like this, it doesn’t matter.”

 

His movements are finding a rhythm, the motion of his hand unpredictable and erratic, but his thrusts are perfectly even. Steph can’t resist the rocking movement LeBron is establishing for him. It feels better to give in, to let LeBron thrust into him and jerk him off at the other’s pace.

 

But his hand leaves his cock suddenly, and Steph lets out a soft sob, aching to be touched. LeBron grabs his wrist off the wall, squeezing tight.

 

LeBron yanks on Steph’s arm until his hand reaches his hole, just barely. Then he directs Steph’s fingertips as they trace over the thick shaft of LeBron’s arousal, the thin rubber of the condom covering it, and the hypersensitive skin of his rim forced wide around it. Despite the lingering ache of that stretch, LeBron shivers at the arousing feeling the other buried deep inside him – the first and only person to touch his ass and to put his cock inside of him.

 

"I've seen the way you’re looking at me during the games,” LeBron sounds like he’s barely holding it together either and that’s even more of a turn on. “Basically begging me to fuck you right there on the court in front of everyone, in front of the fans, our teams, hell, your slut ass would probably get off on it. It must be why you always gotta’ run your mouth."

 

LeBron slows down, withdraws a little, and lets go of his wrist to reach forward and grab a small bottle of lotion Steph didn’t even know what on the counter. His mind was so jumbled up from being so close to the other man. He suddenly feels utterly stupid and glances down at LeBron trying to pry it open with one hand, and Steph obediently brings his hand off LeBron’s cock and fumbles with the bottle to open it for him.

 

He squeezes the bottle tightly until it squirts out onto the other’s hand, completely soaking it in lotion. Steph moans quietly , and LeBron breathes and pulls his hand back behind Steph. "Yeah, that's it. Gotta’ get you fucking wet," He mumbled hotly, and then there’s a finger prying into Steph’s crease, coating it with the lotion. The digit sinks into him slowly beside LeBron’s length, and Steph has to bite his lip to stop from screaming.

 

LeBron pushes back inside, still rough but easier to take now. And it gets even better when he retracts his finger from his hole and reaches up over Steph’s shirt to touch his left nipple, thumbing over it and then pinching and twisting the way he knows the younger man loves.

 

There’s an impulsive shift in LeBron’s weight as changes the angle, and on his next thrust he gets Steph’s prostate pretty good. Pleasure sparks through Steph, sharp and white-hot, and he just can't help the loud cry that comes out of his mouth.

 

"Shut up," LeBron says harshly. "You want me to do that again, you need to keep your whore trap under control. Got it?"

 

"I can’t help it," Steph mumbles compliantly.

 

“You can,” LeBron argues; sure of being obeyed even though his voice is starting to stretch thin with arousal. “Keep on your feet, Steph.”

 

He balls his hand into a fist and bites down on the knuckles, tasting tears he thought he’d stopped. He wants to touch himself, wants to more than anything else. But he knows LeBron hates it when he tries to take control. He slapped his hand away only moments earlier. Instead, the head of his cock is inches away from the sink, and he tries to rock forward enough to make contact with it.

 

There’s pressure against the back of his neck, just above the sweaty damp line of his shirt; LeBron’s mouth, an open-mouthed kiss and a lick along the top of Steph’s spine. The younger man shudders, almost falls, and LeBron roughly tugs at his nipple through his jersey.

 

"Good, you’re doing well. You're so good for me, my trained little bitch." The words, seeming warm instead of harsh, wash over Steph, making his cock harden further.

 

 LeBron lets go of his nipple to grab him by the shoulder, thumb on his nape and forefinger curled around the side of his throat, but maintains his angle and the amazing stimulation it's giving Steph. And the pressure of his grip on Steph’s neck is enough of a warning to keep the noise down.

 

LeBron keeps pounding his hole, keeps mouthing at his neck and telling him how hot he feels and how slutty he looks, all fucked open and flushed pink for him. “Your tight little ass just swallows me up.”

 

Steph’s knees start shaking from the encouragement. He can feel his thighs trembling uncontrollably, and he’s pretty sure his calves are going to cramp up in a minute.  But he stays upright for a second, another, and he can feel himself going towards the edge faster than he expected and all he has to do it make it there. If he could just reach down and tug at his cock – and as he gets closer, it gets tougher not to touch himself.

 

As he pulls his hand off the sink, LeBron bites at his neck and growls, "Put your left hand on your right nipple, now.” Obeying the order leaves Steph precariously balanced with one hand on the sink and nothing to muffle the high-pitched sounds he can't stop making with every jolt to his prostate. He's biting at his lower lip so hard he might bleed.

 

LeBron snarls, "Quiet," and slaps his hand tight over Steph’s mouth. It's a relief, in one way, not to be responsible for keeping himself quiet anymore – LeBron’s taking care of it. But Steph’s still all clogged up from his pathetic crying fit, earlier, and almost no air is getting through his nose now.

 

But Steph doesn't fight back or struggle because the loss of air – the loss of control – makes heat shoot along his spine, makes his skin tingle all over, and makes everything tense up. Including his inner muscles apparently because LeBron says, "Christ, yes, you’re so tight," and takes his hand away to grip both Steph’s hips so he can push in faster and harder while holding him up.

 

Suddenly being able to breathe again overwhelms Steph, oxygen flooding his system and pleasure surging along with it, moving from his bum to his cock to his chest. LeBron hasn't said he can come yet, but he just can't hold it back now.

 

He tips over into orgasm, totally unable to stop the long loud moan falling from his mouth. He comes completely untouched, come squirting onto the sink and all over his stomach. He tips over physically next when the next sharp thrust of LeBron’s hips shoves him over the sink more. Steph has both his hands trapped underneath himself now, come still spurting from his cock, and he can't breathe.

 

LeBron groans against Steph’s skin and rocks up hard, fast, deep, and desperate. Steph can almost feel the shiver of orgasm run through the other man, imagines that he can feel the pulse of pleasure inside him, and his vision is starting to go even before LeBron shoves him up against the edge of the sink completely.

 

He somehow keeps his feet, even though he’s not quite sure how. It’s been some unmeasured period of time when he blinks back into focus, and he’s still upright and still pressed up against the fogged mirror and the edge of the sink. It doesn’t even look like they broke anything.

 

“God,” LeBron says against his neck. There’s a pull on too-sensitive nerve endings, sharp enough to make Steph flinch and hiss, and LeBron slides free though he keeps his hand on the other’s hip. “Gonna’ pound your ass on the court next.” Corny but effective.

 

“We’ll see about that,” Steph says weakly against the mirror. LeBron’s hand leaves his hip, and he slumps boneless over the sink with the weight of pleasure-drained exhaustion stripping strength from his muscles. After a moment LeBron’s fingers come back to his neck, and when Steph turns his head under the contact, LeBron’s lips brush his cheek.  His breath ghosts warm against the soft skin just under his ear.

 

 “Bitch on the court, bitch in the sheets,” LeBron says. He almost sounds gentle, gentler than Steph has ever heard him. Then he turns, and whatever softness was there is hidden by the line of his jaw from Steph’s view.

 

“Clean yourself up now,” LeBron says and quickly pulls away. He’s suiting his own actions to his words, though he’s doing so with more grace than Steph can currently manage. “Don’t want Klay busting in and seeing what I do to ya’.”

 

“We don’t room together,” Steph points out quickly. “I’ll be fine. And if I’m not, someone will come looking for me in the morning.” He manages to finally move and pull his shorts back into place, shifts his weight around so he can lean against the sink and watch LeBron, fully composed now as he moves towards the door.

 

 The other man doesn’t speak; for a moment Steph’s not going to either. But then affection or sentimentality gets the best of him, and he says, “See you Sunday,” before he can stop himself.

 

LeBron pauses with his hand on the deadbolt. He doesn’t turn, only hesitates in his answer, and when he speaks Steph can’t see his face. But he can hear the smile under the words, can pick out the hint of almost-softness in the syllables, and it’s enough, as it is always enough.

 

“You better bring it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Leave comments or whatever if you like it or are totally disgusted. I can handle it.
> 
> I really want to write more but not sure.
> 
> Hit me up @Checkmat3y.tumblr.com if you wanna shoot the shit or just squeal of these two millionaires.


End file.
